song of the day: Save Me / Aimee Mann (that song from Magnolia where she sings "you look like the perfect fit / for a girl in need of a tournakit")
word of the day: tournakit? how do you spell that? wha?

i'm in amsterdam. it's so tiring, every where i go i am mobbed by throngs of ravenous stuart davis fans, run around a corner, duck into a bar, i do what i can, but they always find me. disguise? no duh, yes, i have tried every disguise you can think of, i've been a cross dresser, i've done the base ball hat and big sunglasses, i have worn sweat suits and scarves, i grew a beard, i shaved my beard, i tried an eye patch, walked with a limp, and it's all to no use, because i am one famous mother F#~!$R over here. why? uh... i only WROTE a song called Amsterdam. yeah, and to make it worse, Windmills and Wheatfields? they LOVE IT. Europe has tosses aside Robbie Williams like a used douche and prostrated itself before me- and oh, i'm just too tired for it today. oh, today i just want to shop in anonymity, i just want to spend a few thousand Euro in the mall, some prada glasses, some D&G jackets- and i want to do it without having to sign a nubile breast every ten yards, for once i'd like come out of an armani dressing and NOT find the attendant disrobed and beeseching me for unspeakables. but i am who i am. i am stuart davis, and in amsterdam there is no way i am going to so much as take a leak without a camera, an autograph. the press has been brutal on me here- especially the english. what a fascination with cruelty they have. i've stopped watching the telly, first they love you, then they turn on you. when they discovered me i was the next nick drake, i was the new christie moore- now they say i'm fat, my enourmous success has dulled my craft, my last album sold horribly- unflattering pictures of me- stuffing my face with brownies in this one, a double chin in that one. they DOCTOR the pictures digitally. then they pay backstabbing acquaintances of mine to provide vicious untruths-that i'm a tempestous, self-absobed adolescent who trashes hotel rooms and psychologically abuses his staff and crew. manufactured reports of indescretions with secretaries, band memebers- a torrid homosexual affair with our monkey Mr Banana. it doesn't matter if that dildo was a prop, it doesn't matter if we were rehearsing for what everyone well knows is part of the stage show- it doesn't MATTER. the facts can never correct what the drama-obsessed media puts into the world. what gets me through it? the fans. the fans get me through it. tonight i'll step out in front of 10,000 people in Amsterdam, 10,000 people that love me, that GET what i'm doing as an artist, 10K people that know the words to Sugar Bullets because it's changed their LIVES, and when they sing along in unison with me "porno flicks without the plot" i know why i'm alive, i know what...what God is. and those people, those people are my family. but you know what else? today i'm just fucking trying to shop for some Prada sunglasses and i wish they would BACK off and leave me alone, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!! i am entitled to my privacy, and i would appreciate some space, and i would appreciate some anonymity you fucking blood sucking clutching grasping touchy feely star struck losers. get a life.